


Bad Moon Rising

by RavenGrey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time Blow Jobs, Hair Pulling, Light Bondage, M/M, super hero AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 05:42:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2139150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenGrey/pseuds/RavenGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m off duty.” Sam offers blandly, testing the strength of the cuffs casually and heaving a sigh when they don’t bend or break</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Moon Rising

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this forever ago and I'm just now getting around to posting it. It's kinda dumb, but here, have a stupid au

             It isn’t everyday he ends up on his knees. Hell, it happens sometimes, he’ll admit; but it’s a rare enough occurrence that he _really_ hadn’t expected it. He also hadn’t expected the thick, bright silver manacles locked snug around his wrists or the leather-clad, trench-coated man reclining against the wall.

            He’s smirking wryly and Sam feels vaguely threatened. Mostly though, he’s just tired.

            Sam gives him an exasperated look and shifts his knees so there’s less gravel digging into them.

            “That was easy.” The Hunter laughs, pushing off from the wall to walk a lazy circle around Sam’s prone form. His coat rustles around his knees and hangs open to reveal a mostly bare chest. He’s got on a little scrap of leather up-top, a halter-top maybe? that just barely covers his nipples.

             It’s studded around the collar, brass, and ties in the front at the base of his neck in a cute little bow. Sam’s shoulders tense when mercenary for hire prowls behind him and he can feel the drag of eyes over his skin, hot and surprisingly intimate for someone he’s only ever met on the battlefield.

            “I’m off duty.” Sam offers blandly, testing the strength of the cuffs casually and heaving a sigh when they don’t bend or break. His dick gives an interested throb when The Hunter’s fingers slip over the taut muscles of his shoulders and skim, slow and purposeful, over the side of his neck.

             He shivers softly and shifts his knees closer together because this is getting real damn awkward real damn fast. He doesn’t remember being this easy, but in his defense the 6’1, rugged Adonis that’s towering over him is hot enough to have nuns questioning their faith.

It doesn’t help that Sam’s been unfortunately attracted to the guy from the first time the viscous man had dropped him like a sack of potatoes.

            “Yeah, I picked up on that.” Dean grins wryly; squatting down in front of Sam so he can look him in the eye.

             The Hunter’s pants are made of dark brown leather, he notes idly, and they cling to lethal looking legs and leave absolutely nothing to Sam’s imagination. The knee-high pirate boots, complete with gold buckles all the way up the side, only add to the level of teenage wet-dream that The Hunter, douche-bag villain extraordinaire, is currently rocking.

             Sam avoids him, looking down at his bruised tomatoes and The Hunter tips his chin up with gloved fingers.

             Sam’s eyes make the slow drag up his calves, over the sharps juts of his hipbones to the dip at the base of his throat. He keeps his eyes there and can’t help but shudder when tries to imagine what the skin of his collarbones would taste like beneath his tongue.  

  Sam didn’t always have an aversion to eye contact, but since his fairly recent fuck-up he’s been having a hard time looking people in the eye. Guilt can be a bitch that way.

            “Was it the lack of spandex or the groceries that clued you in?” Sam asks, equally wry, subtly breathing in a waft of leather and whiskey that clings to the Hunter. He finally gets up the balls to look him in the eye.

             This close, The Hunter’s eyes almost gleam in the semi-dark, a wicked, stunning shade of green that Sam’s always admired from a safe distance, usually behind bullet proof glass if he can manage it.

             It isn’t so safe now. Not when he’s presumably been sent here to make sure that he has an unfortunate, but tragically painful accident and that his body is found at the scene of that unfortunate, but tragically painful accident.  

            “Little bit of both.” He purrs, freakin’ _purrs_ out those words and Sam knows he’s a goner. And god, how can one man have so many freckles, like little spots of sunlight on his skin and still manage to be freakin’ terrifying without even trying.

             Sam can make out each and every one of them and it’s _dangerous_. Dangerous because a seriously hot man has been sent to kill him probably and Sam can only think about his freakin’ freckles and how killer his ass probably looks in leather.

            He’s fallen pretty damn far, Daddy’s good little Soldier, and it’s a testament to how tired he is that he doesn’t actually care at this point how things turn out.

             After the latest cluster-fuck, he’d been too bone-tired to keep on heroing, so after minimal clean-up (a few dozen bodies to make disappear and a couple gallons of blood to wash off his hands) he’d gone into early retirement, gotten a normal enough job and put as much of his past behind him as his consciousness would allow.

            He only responds to emergencies now, like bombings or evacuations or class A supers who decide to takes the less than heroic path and go villain, but for the most part his suits, the flashy one for the public and the more practical one for battle, are tucked away into their obscure corners and left to gather dust.

             Sam likes it that way, he really does.   

             The Hunter’s smirk is lopsided and he laughs, and it has a hint of a quiet rasp to it, just the barest mention of roughness that licks down Sam’s spine and curls low in his belly.

             “Gotta say man, you are rocking the civilian look,” he says after a few seconds of silent contemplation “damn son.” He bites his lip and makes an appreciative “mm-mmm” sound.

             And simple as that, Sam’s almost rock hard in his worn jeans and he’s pretty freakin’ sure that The Hunter, one of the most dangerous, if not overly flashy, assassins in the world is perfectly aware of it.

            He’s almost helpless, super-strength be damned because he’d been stupid enough let his guard down and now he’s gonna die with a boner.

            Which is just great, really. Just fantastic.

            “And you’re rocking the gay pirate look.”

            Dean barks out a laugh and says “I try.” gesturing modestly at himself. Sam smiles and it’s a tired, a little worn, but Dean’s got a hip cocked and a hand on the aforementioned hip and it’s one of the sassiest things he’s ever seen.

            “You’re much cuter when you smile, ya know that?” Sam gives an over-exaggerated frown in response. The painful accident part is slow in coming and Sam’s left wondering what’s up.

            “And you’re much cuter when you’re not trying to kill me.” He laughs back, enjoying the witty banter, dimples showing as he levels a half-smile up at Dean. He’s pretty sure Zachariah’s the one who put the hit out on him and he briefly considers squishing his head between his hands. Briefly.

            Okay, so he actively imagines taking his fat, bald little head between his hands and _squeezing._

             He’s been doing it a lot lately.

             Dean’s lips quirk up and he tosses his non-existent hair and says “I am _always_ cute, trying to kill you or no.”

             Sam laughs again, because it feels good, and doesn’t agree or disagree. He starts talking, regulation crap he’s had memorized since he was 13 and accidently crunched a door knob, because he doesn’t know what else to do while he waits.

            “You do realize you’re violating one of the big 20, right?” Sam asks, and it’s ironic because the man in front of him has killed people for less than the inconveniences he’s caused, for everyone involved, and he’s an easy target right now.

             “Super human commandment number 8, thou shalt not unmask any supers who don’t particularly want to be unmasked.” There’s more to that rule, something about jail time and restraining orders and suing if you’re stupid enough to reveal a super’s identity. Sam doesn’t think the Hunter is going to be bothered by the threat of restraining orders though, not with his line of work.

It’s also kind of hard to file a restraining order when you’re dead.

            Dean’s thumb drags along his jaw and he smiles a distinctly less-than soothing smile that nearly makes Sam shudder.

             “Who says I’m gonna unmask you?” there’s just the hint of threat and it goes right to his long dormant dick. “Who says I don’t want you all to myself?” Dean’s thumb on his lips, the smooth slide of fitted leather over a busted lip and Sam’s _definitely_ a goner.

            His heart is thrumming and his pupils are blown and Dean’s using his thigh muscles to rise from his crouch and Sam’s impressed despite himself. He idly wonders how the Hunter had found him, he’d been so damn careful about his identity, but here he is.

            His cock throbs and Sam grits his teeth hard enough that his jaw hurts. Deans’ so close and good fucking lord he just sucked his thumb clean, tongue flicking over the leather and leaving it shiny.

             Dean smirks, sly and heated, and steps casually into Sam’s personal space, hips about level with Sam’s chin. Sam tips his head back, throat exposed, to look up at Dean with lowered, skeptical eyebrows.

             “Do you?” he asks sarcastically “because I’m pretty damn sure you’re here to kill me and I gotta say, the lollygagging is a little off-putting.”

            Dean gasps, like he’s offended, and brings a hand to his heart like he’s a wounded maiden “Me? Lollygag? Never, just decided I don’t want to do it is all.” He says matter-o-fact, rocking back onto his decidedly fabulous heels. Sam arches his eyebrows and gives him a truly spectacular bitch-face.

            “Just out the goodness of your heart?”

            “I don’t have a heart,” there’s a smooth, amused drawl in there somewhere and Sam feels it deep in his something. He’s not sure where he’s feeling it, but damn is he feelin’ it “they didn’t tell me my target was _the_ Soldier and I definitely _don’t_ need that kind of heat right now, and sweetie, if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

             The blunt honesty is refreshing, and arousing in the “I’m a little scared” kind of way and Sam drops his head and smiles at the ground before looking back up at him with a cocked eyebrow.

            “If you don’t want me dead then what do you want from me?” He jingles the cuffs behind his back and gives him a pointed look “Cause this is either a murder attempt or a slightly dubious foray into BDSM, which I mean, I’m all for, but it’d have been nice if you’d asked first.”

            Dean makes an oops face and shrugs his shoulders, a faint grin on his lips “Oh God, this is a murderous slightly dubious foray into BDSM isn’t it? I should have known, the heavy manacles were a dead giveaway.” Sam sighs.

             “Ya got me.” Dean hunches his shoulders playfully forward and leans in, eyes pleasantly dangerous behind his mask.

            “I knew it.” He breathes back; properly aggrieved, pulse racing and stomach full of hot, light fluttering. Between one throb of his heart and the next he’s made up his mind and it isn’t the worst idea he’s ever had, but it’s up there. But he’s so tired of doing what he’s supposed to.

             Painfully aware of Dean’s eyes on his skin, he leans in and rubs his cheek against the front of Dean’s lace-up pants, breath blowing warm over the growing tent when he turns to press his lips flush against the leather.

            It’s Dean’s turn to shudder, eyes going half-lidded as he stares down at the top of Sam’s head.

             Lust spikes razor-sharp through his belly and he has to breathe in hard through his nose to keep from groaning at the abrupt, light touches. The laces of his pants press against him and he’s already half hard.

             Dean’s head tips back and he draws in a few sobering breaths. They burn in his lungs, the crisp night air chilly even through his coat, and clear his head temporarily of the nearly blinding lust the feather of Sam’s breath had caused.

             “Easy there big fella, you don’t have to do this.” If his dick could talk, it would be pissed, but Dean couldn’t, in good consciousness, let Sam do anything he wasn’t 100 percent sure about. He just doesn’t roll like that.

             So despite the fact that Sam, the _freakin’_ Soldier, who’s featured in more of his wet dreams than he’d care to count, is on his knees in front of him and apparently willing to suck him off, he makes himself say “S’just a little banter, not a commitment.” in a tone that barely skirts being pure want and falls just shy of casual teasing.

            His hands hang loosely at his sides and curl into fists when Sam opens his mouth and drags his tongue slow and firm over the line of his growing dick. He moans, long and low and sinful, and braces his hands on his hips as Sam’s tongue presses hard against him through leather.

             “No, I don’t,” Sam agrees in a level tone, managing somehow to sound calm and in control despite his position “but I’m gonna, if you’d just shut for a few minutes.”

            “Darlin’,”he rumbles heatedly, wetting his bottom lip with a quick swipe of his tongue “it’s gon be more than a few minutes.” Sam grins and closes his lips around where he guesses the head of Dean’s cock is. Heswirls his tongue in neat, lazy circles, tossing in the occasional flick and ending with a careful scrape of his teeth that draws a raspy moan from Dean.

             Dean’s cock hardens beneath his tongue and his next breath feels like it’s full of fire, filling every part of his body with a rush of adrenaline.   

            He pulls clear with a last promising flick and murmurs “We’ll see.” into the charged air between them.

            Dean groans appreciatively, a rough sound that licks down Sam’s spine and leaves him aching in a way that’s as wonderful as it is frightening.

             Smooth and quick, Dean brings his hand to his mouth and catches the tip of his glove with his teeth. A firm tug and his fitted glove is off and buried in one of his many pockets, the second one following suit so he can tangle his hands in Sam’s long, surprisingly soft hair.

             It’s better than he’d imagined, and God, how many times had he imagined this? and for a few seconds there Dean had teetered uncomfortably close to jizzing in his pants because the second he’d touched Sam’s hair he’d made this _sound_.

            Like he’d never felt anything better than Dean’s hands in his hair and his eyes had not so much as slipped closed as they had slammed  closed. Sam’s cheeks are flushed a rosy pink that has nothing whatsoever to do with the wind.

             Dean’s nails scrape lightly over Sam’s scalp and he groans, head tipped back, throat exposed, and licks a firm stripe up the front of Dean’s laces. Dean hisses out a slow breath when Sam unties the dinky little bow with his teeth and moans out a “holy fuck” when Sam’s tongue slides, warm and slick, over the skin of his lower stomach.

            Dean gives him an accusing look; breathless despite himself “You’re not supposed to be good at this.” Sam laughs, breath flitting over Dean’s skin, and presses an open mouth kiss to the smooth skin just below Dean’s navel.

            “Says who?” Dean’s stomach muscles twitch beneath his lips and he edges his tongue steadily downward, Dean’s fingers tightening in his hair. Dean’s skin tastes clean, a little salty, but mostly he just tastes like whatever body wash he uses.

             “Says the preacher of the church you’ve been going to since you were old enough to walk.” Dean snorts back, head falling forward, lips parted to reveal a sliver of stunningly white teeth.

             “And I’m pretty sure they don’t teach _this_ in Sunday school.”

            Sam chuckles breathlessly and says deviously “You must have missed this lesson.”

            Dean shakes his head, a faint grin on his face, and untangles a hand so he can wrestle himself out of his pants.

             “Must have.” Sam waits patiently and licks his lips without really realizing it when Dean pulls his length free. Dean’s dick is damn gorgeous, flushed a soft pink at the tip and shiny with a light sheen of pre-come.

            “Name’s Dean.” The Hunter, Dean, murmurs huskily, and Sam tries it out. It rolls off his tongue like honey and Dean gasps low and quiet. He figures the guy sucking his dick should at the very least know his name. 

             If his hands were free, he’d steady Dean’s length with his hand before he took him into his mouth, but they aren’t so instead he slips forward and licks Dean from base to tip, pre-come smearing on his bottom lip.

            The Hunter’s hips jerk and Sam smiles like a shy version of the fucking Cheshire cat as he laps at the pre-come slicking Dean’s head.  Dean’s calloused thumb brushes over Sam’s cheek and Sam leans into the touch, eyes half-lidded as Dean rubs his thumb over Sam’s lips.

             The hesitant touch of Sam’s tongue shouldn’t be as hot as it is but his cock twitches and Sam’s eyes dart to it briefly, lighting with wicked pleasure as he leans in and flicks his tongue over Dean’s slit.

            Dean’s got something witty and clever lined up, to cover up the whine that just slipped through his teeth, but Sam has other ideas and they all involve Dean’s dick in his mouth.

            And Sam’s a man who gets what he wants.

             His lips close around Dean and he swirls his tongue, the musky taste of pre-come spreading out and filling his mouth. Dean’s hips jolt forward and Sam loosens his jaw to take in Dean’s length, breathing through his nose as Dean fills his mouth.

             His jaw aches comfortably and he bobs his head, Dean’s shaft sliding a little rough through his lips as he tries to find a decent rhythm.

             He pulls off to press a kiss to Dean’s heated skin, lips red, and looks up into Dean’s face.

             Narrowed eyes and slack lips are what he finds and he grins a little, embarrassed, before swallowing him back down, as much as he can without choking. Almost all of Dean fits in his mouth, lips stretched open wide around him as he laves the underside of Dean’s cock with small strokes.

            His own dick is hard to the point of hurting, but he ignores the steady throb of arousal and the way the seam of his jeans is digging into him something fierce and hollows his cheeks. Dean’s shoulders are hunched; face tight with concentration as he tries to fight down the rising tide of pleasure that has him teetering on the edge of sweet, sweet, the crap of his wildest fantasies, oblivion.

            Dean makes the mistake of looking down. Sam’s lips are wrapped tight around him, sin and sweetness all wrapped up in one and Dean comes as suddenly as that. He doesn’t have time to warn Sam, which in hindsight was very rude, but it _had_ hit him out of nowhere.

            It wasn’t just any old orgasm, oh no, it was the ground-shaking, knees trembling, breaths coming in great, gasping pants as wave after wave of relentless pleasure washes over him kind of orgasm.

             That first wash of bitter, salty come over his tongue is oddly elating, strangely enough and he swallows around Dean until his hips stop jerking and he starts to go soft in his mouth.

             They’re both breathing hard and Dean’s got a thin sheen of sweat going despite the chill. He’d also slipped gracefully to his knees when they’d given out. Sam’s still painfully hard, but he can’t bring himself to break the honest stillness by moving. Not just yet anyways.

            Sam knows he’ll never forget the look on The Hunter’s face in those few moments of raw quiet and Dean knows he won’t forget the soft flush on Sam’s face or the way he met Dean’s eye almost shyly after.

             The only other sound besides the loud echo of their breaths is the much quieter sound of Sam unlocking the manacles with the key he’d telekinesis’d, thanks mom, off Dean.

             Dean’s still limp as a noodle where he’s kneeling when Sam rises to his feet, despite his protesting knees and his creaky back, and The Hunter’s eyes flash to Sam’s when he deposits the heavy cuffs and the key into his lap with a sheepish smile.

            Dean’s brain is having a hard time comprehending what the hell just happened, mainly because it’s still pretty fried from the fucking amazing blow job, but by the time he realizes what the hell just happened, Sam’s got his bags of groceries in hand and is walking towards his apartment with a determined, unhurried stride. 

            “That was easy.” He calls back over his shoulder, grinning widely at the slack-jawed look Dean gives him.

             Walking hurts a little, mainly because he has some serious blue-balls and his knees are cramping. He feels more at peace than he has in a long time, he just looked death in the face and gave him a blowjob, as Dean’s rueful, smirking face disappears behind him.

 


End file.
